[ Post a Response | Role Play Board ]
Posted by The Spirit
on 7/6/2009, 11:20 pm, in reply to "Just Another Day, part I (intro)"
69.47.233.55
I feel kind of bad breaking into a dead man’s apartment. But I guess I’m technically dead as well, so that sort of evens things out… right? Besides, from the looks of this apartment, I’m not the only one who’s broken in recently. Someone came by, and someone was looking for something.
The floor is laden with books pulled from various bookcases and shelves. His bed has been slashed and pulled apart. The cabinets have been pulled from his desk, the papers thrown scattershot about the floor. The window has been smashed open… even though it’s unlocked… and the glass is on the outside… that’s not right. Even the refrigerator has been hollowed out, trays and food thrown about the tiny kitchen. Strange… the food doesn’t smell… and it’s still cold. I race across the apartment to the window, tripping over broken furniture and papers all the while. I look outside, but all I see is the cold and the rain and the endless skyline of the city. Whoever broke in did it recently, did it sloppily, and exited forcefully through an open window. Every step forward leads me three steps back tonight.
The picture on the wall is what tips me off. A black and white photo of two kids, both bespectacled in front of… this very building from the looks of it. Probably Morris & Gusterman. It’s sitting on the wall, perfectly straight and untouched. Now why if you were breaking in, would you not move a photo on the wall? How often is there a safe behind that idyllic picture behind the wall. The details of this aren’t adding up.
I take down the photo, and, sure enough, there’s a safe. Get creative, people, seriously. Now for the tricky part—bursting into the safe. I never thought I’d be breaking into a deadman’s safe as a superhero, but it’s the best chance I got at solving this whole thing. I crack my knuckles, crack my neck, and get cracking. Spinning the lock slowly, listening for the click of the right number.
After what seems like an eternity, the door clicks open. I take off my hat and fan myself for a moment before wiping my brow and looking inside. Nothing but a book. A small, leatherbound journal. Morris’s journal.
Bingo. If the answer’s anywhere, it’s in his journal. But why keep the journal in the safe? More answers, more questions.
I stuff the journal in my jacket, lock the door, and climb out the window onto the fire escape. The rain is cold and the air is thick, but the sun is breaking on the horizon, and the storm can’t hold out much longer. At least I hope not. 
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